


hard to be soft, tough to be tender

by 4RU



Category: Dragon Ball, dragon ball z abridged
Genre: AU, Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slight deviations from Dragon Ball Z Abridged canon, don't read this they are disgustingly domestic in later chapters, it's as gross as you can imagine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-22 19:37:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10703718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4RU/pseuds/4RU
Summary: The future is bright.





	1. tomorrow might be good for something

**Author's Note:**

> AU (duh). Trunks brings Broly to the future with him where everything is sunshine and rainbows and nothing bad happens At All. Going off a personal headcanon/lore change wherein Broly cannot control going LSSJ and does it when he feels any one emotion too strongly (relevant later). Also Trunks has a tail; it's cute and purple and very fluffy.

It starts when he wakes in a familiar yet foreign bed. His own, yet not. The mattress beneath his body scratches and burns at his skin, the sheets likewise feeling wrong and off. His heart jackhammers in his chest when he registers an arm around his waist, the pressure crushing him even though the touch is absolutely light and serene. He feels trapped, isolated and hopeless, and terror seeps its grasp on his mind before logic and reasoning can fight it back. Trunks cannot think, only act to the sound of cruel laughter ringing in his ears. He lashes out, throws the arm off of him and kicks at its owner, using the momentum to push himself away, _above_ , to get the upper hand, beat them before they beat _him_ \--  
  
A hand catches his fist before it can make contact. He snarls, outraged and fearful, instinctively moving to correct the motion with his other arm when pulling doesn’t release the first. Desperately he begins to gather his ki, determined to _get away_ when a leg kicks out and a tail wraps around his thigh, upsetting his balance and yanking him firmly down and into Broly’s waiting arms.  
  
Trunks struggles – he always does at first. Spitting panic and hate, frustrated and scared. By now Broly has learned to hold him through these instances, knowing it will last longer and get worse if he lets Trunks fly off to endure the attack in a corner by himself (the wall still hasn’t been repaired from the last time). So he weathers the fists beating at his chest and the knees kicking at his legs, the tears that touch his collar and soak into his hair. He holds tight and hard and murmurs against his temple, promises that he’s okay, he’s safe, match his breathing; and only loosens his grip when Trunks has spent his energy and collapses against him.  
  
It can take seconds, it can take minutes. Eventually his husband stills, chest heaving, hair damp with sweat, his breaths coming hot and heavy against Broly’s neck. He lays limp, tired and exhausted, making an appreciative noise for the way Broly’s fingers trace soothing lines against his spine.  
  
“I’m okay. I’m okay now.” A lie, a truth. His skin is warm and sticky and his throat is dry and this is the third time in nine days he’s woken up to an attack. The only evidence that he’s improving at all is that the attacks have been fluctuating in length and occurrence and he no longer wakes his mother. It still frustrates him to no end. The androids are gone. Cell is gone. The world is safe. He should be _better_ and he’s _not_.  
  
He cannot bring himself to move – too tired. Too listless. Trunks doesn’t even have the strength to feel any emotion that isn’t just utter exhaustion. No shame or self-hatred. Dawn isn’t for another four hours; it isn’t terribly surprising that he falls asleep, pillowed comfortably against his husband as he is. And he sleeps until well past noon, unbothered by dreams of annihilation again. For the time being.

 


	2. spark like empty lighters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes things happen.

When Bulma falls ill Trunks feels his sanity start to crack. Sickness isn’t some new concept (especially not when you cut yourself on a piece of rusted metal), but watching his mother grow weaker and weaker as the days tick by causes something inside him to twist and knot with terror and worry. He starts missing even more sleep, if it were possible. When he does dream, it’s to nightmares of waking up to find his mother has died and him powerless to do anything about it.  
  
To Broly’s credit, he tries to assist. He brings ration pouches and clean water. But whenever he starts to meekly question what else can be done, Trunks snaps. It’s not something he can help, but his frustration and anger bubbles so close to the surface and he’s just so _afraid_ he can do little else than that.  
  
Then they run out of their stocked medical supplies.  
  
If Trunks had been sour before, he’s downright irascible now. He grows all the more hesitant to leave Bulma’s side, but all the more determined to scavenge for anything to replenish their stock, to find anything that might work. It pulls at him, the want to stay, the need to go. He pushes himself harder, and Broly too as a result. He starts demanding more from himself and his husband, insisting that there has to be _something_ out there that can help his  weak mother.  
  
Broly takes it in stride. He knows that Trunks has lost so many people that the thought of losing Bulma is simply not feasible. It cannot happen, it would _shatter_ Trunks. So he endures the yelling and the temper and the mood swings. And when Trunks lets him he pulls him close and offers what comfort he can, kisses his forehead and makes promises he isn’t entirely certain he can keep.  
  
The situation comes to a head when Bulma’s health takes a turn for the worst. Her blood pressure drops drastically in the night and it’s all Trunks can do to give her water and saltines in a feeble attempt at stabilizing her condition, crying at the utter anguish that he’s _losing her_ .  
  
How the argument starts, Trunks does not know. He does not even recall yelling at Broly, much less what words he might have said. In times of fear, confusion, and anger people often say things they do not mean. Had he been level-headed at the time he might have held his tongue, reminded himself that Broly is still new to the human world and culture.  
  
He does not. He only lashes out, and Broly (in either rage or hurt, maybe both it’s difficult to tell for certain), meets his temper with furious pupil-less eyes and burnished golden hair. Trunks even has a moment of instant regret, guilt seizing his heart, memories of the beating on New Vegeta. He does not think, he acts out of protectiveness, out of a love so dear it _hurts_ \- and Broly just takes it with a glare and a minute curl of his lips, not lifting so much as finger against him in turn as he flees in a way that would almost be hilarious (he is too big to fit through the doorframe properly) were Trunks in the right mindset to better appreciate the humor in his departure.  
  
Instead he only throws further insults and jeers at the saiyan’s back, telling him to _go, go! I don’t need you! I never needed you!_ Until his husband disappears from sight and, the source of his ire gone, Trunks can only turn back to offer his mother what comfort he can still yet give.  
  
Broly does not return in the morning. Bulma scolds her son furiously, and Trunks might have taken that as a sign of improvement in her condition were it not for the rasping coughs that wrack her thin frame in between her stern words. Instead he can only feel more guilt. Guilt that he was so mean to Broly. Guilt that he cannot save Bulma. Guilt for the world and how it seems so content to just collapse all around him no matter how hard he tries.  
  
He wallows for the better part of the day, clutching to his mother’s hand and stewing in his own worry and self-loathing. Trunks does not honestly think Broly will return. Why would he? He’d been odious to his husband, unacceptable in his behavior and actions. It would serve him right for Broly to leave and move on. Even if that realization cuts him deep and makes the hollows of his heart ache and burn.  
  
Yet against all odds Broly is back by nightfall, roughly twenty-four hours after his sudden departure. He clearly hasn’t slept from the dark rings under his eyes and his hair is terribly wind-tousled, but he holds up a small bag with a very tired smile, quietly explaining that a doctor from a distant human shelter recommended the medicine. And when Trunks inspects it, fingers numb and shaking and oh how he wants to _hope--_ , he sees that it is a few vials of penicillin and a clean syringe to administer the liquid. He can’t help it, he  _sobs_ . He sobs so hard that Broly has to gently nudge him back to Bulma’s bedside so he can give her the medicine while his husband steadies his hands with his own to keep the needle's aim true.  
  
And when that has done Trunks barely has the fight left in him to kiss  Broly’s lips and whisper the most heartfelt apologies into his skin before he succumbs to his own exhaustion. His mother will be okay. Broly is back. He's not alone, he didn't completely fuck this up.  Things might just turn out okay after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't going to be the next chapter but it wasn't wanting to be written so you get double the sads instead of the fluff I originally planned. ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ


	3. it's time to blow this fire out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trunks' sleeping pattern has been improving. He doesn't like it.

It happens so gradually that Trunks does not notice it has occurred at all until he stops and thinks of it. Broly doesn't cuddle him in his sleep any more. At least, when he's not hulked out (fun fact no one tells about the Legendary Super Saiyan™ is that on top of being probably the most destructive bastard in the galaxy on an off day is that he's also a damned cuddlewhore). He vividly recalls nights where he would doze off with his back snugly fitting into Broly's chest and Broly's arm secure around his waist with a brown tail holding fast to his thigh.  
  
But sometime in the most recent weeks that had stopped.  
  
Now, when they share their bed and the Legendary Super Saiyan™ isn't gleefully crushing Trunks into his rippling pectorals (not that he minds the aforementioned crushing as long as he can still _breathe_ and isn’t being asphyxiated to death by said rippling pectorals), Broly sleeps with his spine pressed up against his husband's own and their tails twisted together somewhere in-between the sheets.  
  
When he asks his husband about this new(ish) development, Broly can only roll his shoulders in an easy shrug, tail squeezing for comfort. “You sleep better like this.”  
  
And it makes sense, in a way. It brings a feeling of solace to have Broly near, touching him. More than that, having him against his spine and watching his back is possibly one of the best things Broly could have ever done for his innate paranoia and fears of never being prepared. And Trunks wants to smack himself for not realizing it sooner. When was the last time he woke to a nightmare, or in blind attempts at lashing out due to his own stupid head? Last week, instead of last _night_? He’d gotten such a good break from his own mind that he hadn’t even realized it to be so until Broly casually brought it to his attention with five little words.  
  
Except. Except Trunks isn’t satisfied. He should be, yes, but he is _selfish_ and he _misses_ the throw of an arm around his waist, the way Broly’s knee would fit so snugly between his own. He misses the innate security that came with dozing off in his husband’s hold, the little kisses Broly would press into his shoulders and neck when he thought he was asleep.  
  
It wouldn’t do. _Fuck_ his paranoia.  
  
All at once Trunks twists himself in place, shifting from his preferred sleeping side to meet with the sight of Broly’s broad back. Here he pauses, considering, having not thought this plan entirely through. But he’s come too far to give up now and he’s not yet so gone as to verbally demand his husband to hold him.  
  
So instead he presses up against Broly and slings one leg around the saiyan’s waist, mentally fuming at the difference in their height even now. His tail latches on to Broly’s thigh before he can stop it and his arm finds purchase around his lover’s chest shortly. It’s not comfortable at all. Not in the least bit. Trunks has no expectations that he’ll actually fall asleep like this, but his goal of getting closer to Broly has been accomplished and he feels the satisfaction swelling wonderfully in his ribcage all the same.  
  
Broly makes a curious sound (of course he isn’t asleep, how could he be with all of Trunks’ squirming?), but the hand that comes to cover his own is proof positive that he doesn’t object to this strange new development. He does, however, make it a point to ask if Trunks is enjoying himself, and Trunks does not bother even trying to hide the playful quirk of his lips.  
  
“Yup.” He punctuates it by brushing Broly’s hair aside and kissing what he can reach of his upper back. A shame he can’t get to his neck like this, but he can still pepper sweet little kisses to his husband’s skin. It’s a bit difficult, considering he’s practically grinning, but he manages. Right up until inspiration suddenly strikes and he turns one seemingly innocent kiss into a full on raspberry.  
  
The startled laughter that greets his ears at his antics is encouragement enough. Trunks continues gleefully, alternating between kisses and raspberries, coltish and affectionate all at once. He gets a few more minutes of silliness in before Broly reaches for him. And he lets himself be caught and pulled against his husband’s chest, maneuvering over him as Broly shifts to lay on his back. It’s one of Trunks’ favorite positions, even more so than being spooned. He settles happily pillowed on Broly as if he’s the world’s most comfortable cushion. When his husband settles one hand on his lower back and the other against his neck, Trunks cannot help but to _sigh_.  
  
He falls asleep like that, cradled and held, content even in the eventuality that his treacherous mind will no doubt plague him with nightmares.

 

 


End file.
